Jackhammered

by Ed Bethune

  On our first full day we drew our brand new dungarees, skivvies (underwear), boondockers (boots), covers (hats), toiletries, and 782 gear (a webbed belt on which to attach a canteen, ammunition, etc.). We were “marched” to the barbershop for the famous Marine Corps recruit haircut. The barber made six swipes with large electric clippers and I was, in a blink, a bald recruit with a brand-new cover that was now one size too large. The indignity of that moment is an important part of the Marine Corps technique, tested over the years, to make Marines out of runny-nose civilian kids.

  Next we were marched (herded would be a better word) to our assigned quarters, three Quonset huts positioned on the east side of a field containing hundreds of similar huts. A separate shack called the Head (meaning toilets, showers, and sinks) was nearby. This would be our home for the next three months.

  The next few days were a mixture of physical examinations, shots, and instructions on how to make a bunk and outfit your footlocker. There were precise methods for doing everything in the Marine Corps and woe unto the recruit that misunderstood or ignored that rule.

  By the third day, the drill instructor was managing to keep us in reasonably tight formation. He quickly identified those who were out-of-step, treating their incompetence with a sophisticated blend of ridicule and corporal punishment. Their learning curve took a sharp turn upward and soon we were beginning to look like a military unit, except for the conspicuously dark color of our dungarees and covers, which were still brand new, and unlaundered. We soon learned that the color-shade of a platoon’s dungarees was a telltale sign of how long they had been at MCRD. We hungered for the day when our uniforms would have that washed out look.

  Marching in the Marine Corps, officially called Close Order Drill, is truly different. The drill instructors each have a unique cadence count and their orders are indecipherable to an untrained civilian ear. Early on, recruits learn that Marine drill instructors want you to dig your heels in on every step. It is how they judge the level of synchronization, and they are never happy until the entire platoon sounds like one big heel hitting the ground. “Heels, heels, heels,” the drill instructor will intersperse those words into his cadence count until he is satisfied with what he hears.

  It is hard to imitate Sergeant Lorres’ cadence count and it is nigh impossible to write how it sounded. Suffice to say, it was musical, singsong in style, and it changed from time to time depending upon his mood, but his base cadence, from which all others evolved, sounded like this: “One, Two, Three—Rite idle Lelf—Rite idle Lelf.”

  Within a week, we began to get the routine. Up at 4:30 a.m., shit, shower, shave and get dressed—make up bunks, square away the Quonset hut, and fall out for morning muster. All this we did in less than thirty minutes, and at 5:00 a.m., we were marching away from our area, out onto the grinder, and bearing left to the Mess Hall.

  Boot camp mess halls work like a precision timepiece. Each platoon forms up outside, waiting for its turn to march into chow. When it was time for our platoon to go in Sergeant Lorres would position us near the front door in a single line, and then he would say, “At a half-step, forward march.”

  As we shuffled forward, Sergeant Lorres would order us to tighten up the line: “Close it up—close it up—assholes and bellybuttons—assholes and bellybuttons!”

  The NCO in charge of the mess hall takes over once recruits are actually in the building and no matter how many times we entered his mess hall his first order was: “Each man will take one knife, one fork, and one spoon.”

  Finally, our line reached a row of steam tables, a stack of metal trays, and the food. The NCO would then remind us that recruits in the chow line must extend their arms and tray over the steam table if we wanted the server to slop on a serving of a particular food. Oral communication is wasted effort. It does no good to tell the server you want something, if you do not stick out your tray, you will get nothing. This is an important decision point because you are always hungry, but the NCO makes it clear that you must eat whatever you take. A reckless move could result in an unwanted serving of brains and eggs, beef liver, salt mackerel, or tasteless succotash.

  Once through the line the platoon sits together. Recruits can talk but there is no time for a casual meal. The drill instructor allows only twenty minutes for the meal because he must empty the tables to make room for the next platoon of hungry recruits. Once outside and in formation the drill instructor may, or may not depending on how he feels, say, “The smoking lamp is lit.” It is the only time recruits are allowed to smoke (cigarettes only), and once finished we were required to fieldstrip the butts. That is, we had to carefully tear away the paper and roll it into a tiny ball that we put in our pocket. The leftover tobacco was scattered with the wind.

  There was a similar rule against eating candy, known in the Marine Corps as pogeybait. There were no vending machines near our quarters, but pogeybait was available in machines near the Chapel, which we could attend on Sunday mornings. The punishment for unauthorized smoking or the unauthorized eating of pogeybait was a decision left solely to the discretion of the drill instructor.

  In the eighth week of our training, our platoon got a new assistant drill instructor, Private First Class Johnson, a real prick. He was nothing like Sergeant Lorres; in fact, he was a sadist. We could tell that Sergeant Lorres did not like Johnson, but he could do nothing about his assignment to our platoon. One night when Lorres was off duty, Johnson overplayed his hand. He caught two of our people, one smoking when the smoking lamp was out, and the other eating pogeybait. He made the smoker put several Camel cigarettes in his mouth, lit them, and then put a bucket and then a blanket over the recruit’s head and made him smoke the cigarettes. He damn near suffocated. Then, Johnson made the candy-eater chew up an entire box of Milky Way bars. As he ate them, PFC Johnston hit him in the stomach, repeatedly. The chewed-up candy backed up into the man’s nasal passages and caused him to have two black eyes as well as an episode of uncontrollable vomiting. He had to go to sickbay (the Navy Hospital). When the doctors who attended him reported the facts to the commanding officer of our battalion, they court marshaled PFC Johnson. His stupid mistake was one that he could not cover up or deny. In those days, there were not many prosecutions for recruit mistreatment because the Marine Corps tolerated a relatively high level of corporal punishment in the discipline of recruits. Nevertheless, they busted PFC Johnson and he spent the next few months in the brig. The feeling amongst members of Platoon 213 was that the punishment of Johnson could not have happened to a more deserving son of a bitch.

  In our second week, the DI marched us to the armory where the armorer issued an M-1 rifle to each recruit. These weapons were the same rifles that Marines had used in World War II and Korea. Sergeant Lorres ordered us to memorize the serial number of our rifle and told us, “A rifle is a Marine’s best friend.” He told us to keep it clean and treat it as if it were a family heirloom. We learned that every Marine is, first and foremost, a rifleman. Later, we spent two weeks at nearby Camp Matthews where we learned to shoot like Marines. I easily qualified as a sharpshooter, falling just short of the expert medal.

  Boot camp is running, running, and more running. Then there are drills and work details. Double time is the order of the day. The only time they allowed us to stop running or working was when we were eating, sleeping, or sitting still for a class or demonstration. The hardest thing about boot camp was to stay awake during a lecture on military history, or anything for that matter. Sergeant Lorres made it plain that falling asleep in class was akin to unauthorized smoking or candy eating so the pressure was immense. We all nodded off—we could not help it—particularly if we had just come inside from the cold. Sergeant Lorres would rap us on the head with his fist on the first offense, but woe unto the recruit who nodded off more than once.

  There was one demonstration where falling asleep was not possible. It was during the afternoon that they marched us into the gas chamber with gas masks on. Once we were inside they u
nleashed a heavy dose of tear gas. After the chamber was full of gas, they ordered us to remove our masks and sing, as loudly as we could, the entire “Marine Corps Hymn.” As soon as we finished the last word of the hymn, we barreled out of the gas chamber and rolled around on the ground trying to restore our respiratory function. It took about an hour to get back to normal. What was the lesson? Gas masks work, but you have to be wearing them.

  One day, about a month into boot camp they ordered us to climb a rope ladder to a platform fifty feet above the ground. As I approached the top, the assistant drill instructor up there saw that I was struggling. He stuck his face in mine and growled: “Don’t even think about saying you can’t make it, where there’s a will there’s a way.” Whoa! I had heard those words all my life. This was like family. I wanted to ask the drill instructor if he was part Vermilye, but of course, he would not know what I meant, so I did not ask him. Hey, I thought, I have a home in the Corps. I scurried over the top and that afternoon I was designated First Squad leader and put in charge of a squad of sixteen of my fellow recruits.

  Strangely, that night, for the first time in almost three years, I wet the bed. I do not know why, but looking back, I think it had something to do with my new sense that the Corps was now my home. I guess I just relaxed or something, anyway I thoroughly pissed on myself and soaked the bunk, the blankets and the sheets. How was I going to cover this up? I had two challenges. I had to keep it secret from my fellow recruits, and most importantly, I had to deceive the drill instructor. It was the DI’s practice to pass through our Quonset hut each day after we were outside in formation. If he saw one wrinkle in a bunk, he would tear up the bedding and call the offending recruit out before the platoon for an ass chewing. He always found one offender each day, always. If he were to focus on my bunk and tear up my bedding, I would be undone. I would be humiliated and sent to see a Navy psychiatrist.

  Fortunately, I was good at keeping all my clothes and equipment in perfect order. The Marine Corps is anal about keeping one’s gear in perfect order, and there are all sorts of regulations and inspections to keep the troops from backsliding into a slovenly civilian attitude. The ultimate was the Full Field Inspection, otherwise known in the vernacular as Junk on the Bunk or Things on the Springs. During such an inspection, a Marine must lay out all his possessions, in perfect order, on a perfectly made-up bunk. The footlocker must be open, ready for inspection. It is the pinnacle of personal accountability. Many a recruit underestimated the importance of absolute precision. They paid dearly, but I seemed to have a knack for doing Junk on the Bunk. The DI always complimented me and used my display as a model to teach other members of the platoon.

  If Sergeant Lorres, or our company commander had called for a Full Field Inspection there was no way I could have kept my secret. I do not think I have ever been as scared as I was each morning that I awoke to find myself in a wet bunk. I would slip out of the rack, get out of my wet skivvy shorts and make up the bed, wet as it was. I was lucky that the dark olive-drab wool blanket did not show dampness, and the general odor of the hut overcame the slight odor of piss. I pulled the blanket so tight that a quarter-coin tossed down on it would bounce up a few inches. That, I knew, was what the drill instructor was looking for. If he saw a wrinkle or a wave in the blanket, he would tear the bedding right off of the bunk. I might be able to get by for a few more days, but if they called for a Full Field Inspection, I would never make it. They would discover my secret and I would be a goner. I had to get control of my situation, and I had to do it soon.

  I worried all day, every day, of this last wet period in my life. I loved the Corps and I wanted to make it through boot camp and become a full-fledged Marine. I certainly did not want the Marine Corps to discharge me as a bedwetter. If that had happened, the public humiliation I avoided for the first fifteen years of my life would become a reality. I do not know what I would have done, or how I would have handled it if they had caught me with my wet bed. My military career, and in my mind, my entire life was at stake. If caught I would have to see the “talking doctor,” also known as a “head doctor” in Marine Corps jargon. These were the Navy psychiatrists who discharged all recruits they found to be unsuited for military service, usually because a problem recruit was too immature, a crybaby, or a bedwetter.

  Looking back on it, it is now funny, but it was not funny at the time. For three nights, I tried everything from staying awake to not drinking liquids after noon. I thought about sleeping on the floor, but backed out of that plan because it would have created suspicion that might have led someone to check out my bunk. Nothing seemed to work, I kept wetting the bed. On the fourth night, my bunk began to smell. To make matters worse the next day was the day designated for turning in our dirty linens and drawing clean ones. I needed to do something, and I needed to do it right away. I concluded that, somehow, I had to get rid of the soaked mattress and get a clean, dry one. I developed a plan. The Quonset hut next to mine was vacant. A graduating platoon had just left. I looked in and saw that there were dry mattresses in there, but I needed help to make the exchange. It had to be done surreptitiously, in the middle of the night. The close quarters of our hut made it impossible for me to carry a mattress in or out without hitting or at least waking someone. A high school classmate from Pocahontas, Bob Borner, was in my squad thus he was in my hut. In desperation, I decided to take Borner into my confidence and ask for his help. I woke him up and whispered for him to be quiet. Then I whispered to him that I was having a problem and needed to switch my mattress without asking anyone’s permission. He was half-asleep, but I think he could see how much I needed him. He did not ask questions, he just slid out of bed and we each grabbed an end of my wet mattress and carried it to the door of our hut. I do not think anyone saw us, at least no one said anything. There was a Fire Watch (Marine Corps terminology for an all night guard) stationed in another hut that was next to the empty hut. It was his job to stay awake and be alert so Bob and I could not talk aloud or make the slightest noise. I would be in the most trouble, but Bob would also catch Hell, just for helping me. There were roaming guards who patrolled the whole area, but we saw no one when we opened the door and peeped out. All was clear so we hustled across the open space and into the vacant hut. We dumped the wet mattress on an upper bunk and started out of the vacant hut with a dry mattress. When we hit the open space we scampered, dry mattress in tow, to our hut and quietly opened the door. We got the mattress through the door and only had a few feet to go when I stumped my toe on a footlocker that someone had failed to push under his bunk. I saw stars and bit my tongue until it bled. God, it hurt, but I could not make a sound.

  Finally, we were at my bunk. I got the dry mattress in place and thanked Bob profusely. I pledged him to secrecy and told him I would explain fully at breakfast.

  I had managed to dodge a bullet so far. When reveille sounded and everyone was getting up, I was the first to throw my dirty and soiled sheets into the outgoing laundry bin. Ha! The evidence was now out of my hands. I had a dry mattress and later that day I would draw clean linens. I had lived to fight another day. At breakfast, I told Bob a little white lie. I told him I did not know why I had pissed in the rack, but I was sure it would not happen again. I asked him to protect my secret and he pledged that he would. He did.

  The emergency midnight maneuver to exchange my wet mattress for a dry one somehow solved my problem. My mysterious episode of bedwetting stopped as suddenly, and unexplainably, as it had started and I never had trouble with it after that. I have often thought how my life would have changed if I had been summarily discharged from the Marine Corps as a bedwetter.

  By the third month of boot camp, we were a hardened and competent platoon of recruits. We were still “shitheads” to the enlisted drill instructors, or “recruits” if an officer was in the area, but we were making progress and it was noticeable. It is an amazing experience to see the difference that three months of boot camp can make on a group of teenagers. Our pride an
d confidence showed up when we marched, singing at the top of our voice. “Lift your head and hold it high, Honey; lift your head and hold it high, Babe; Lift your head and hold it high, 213 is passing by; Honey, Baby, mine.” This tune, sung to the cadence of marching, also worked with a variety of other lyrics, for example: “I got a girl in Kansas City, Honey; I got a girl in Kansas City, Babe; I got a girl in Kansas City—she’s got a wart on her left titty; Honey, Baby, mine.” There were other verses, equally sophisticated, and we sang them repeatedly as we marched.

  At the end of our training period our drill instructor congratulated us and told us, “I never thought I would be able to say it, but you shitheads are now United States Marines, welcome aboard.” Upon the recommendation of Sergeant Lorres, I received an award as the outstanding recruit for Platoon 213. I saved the certificate and it remains one of my proudest possessions.

  That same day, April 13, 1954, I marched with my platoon in the graduation parade. I was in the front rank as First Squad leader. My heart filled with pride and thanksgiving and tears came to my eyes when the band struck up the Marine Corps Hymn and we passed in review. The men in my squad snapped their heads toward the reviewing stand when Sergeant Lorres gave the “Eyes right” command and our commanding officers returned the salute. I was now a United States Marine. Semper Fidelis!

  I got orders to report from San Diego Marine Corps Recruit Depot to El Toro Marine Corps Air Station, Santa Ana, California, to work in air intelligence. I had ten days leave that I could take before reporting, so I decided to take the train from San Diego to Little Rock. What an experience. Like most boys, I loved trains. I had never taken a serious train trip, but I was about to take one now.